To The Victor
by Askeebe
Summary: Varania said that Leto fought for the honor of his markings. This is the victory that was stolen from him when he received his markings.
1. First Blood

_A/N: This fic was born from two drawings I ran across long ago on Deviantart and Tumblr. It's been so long that I can't go back and credit the artists, unfortunately, because I can't find them again and didn't save the references. One was of a young, unmarked Leto, bare-chested and holding a sword in an arena. The second was of a nervous looking Leto holding a serving plate with wine and glasses, with an off-screen Danarius saying "Come in, Leto." So this is the best I can manage to reference the artists who inspired this. Thank you._

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"Protect them, Leto. That is your duty." Those were the last words he heard from his father before he was sold away. The master never even bothered to tell them where his father was being sent. For the past three years, Leto had done his best, working hard to earn better food and accommodations for his mother and younger sister. Now he had a chance to protect them forever, a way to give them freedom!

Varania was against it. As soon as he mentioned the magister's tournament to her, she cornered him in the laundry. "Don't you dare, Leto. You heard what the rules were! If you fail, it will kill mother!"

"I won't fail!" he railed back at her as loudly as he dared. Even here, on the far side of the mansion and deep in the slaves' section, no one dared raise their voice for fear of drawing the master's attention. Or worse yet, that of his apprentices.

"You're too young!"

"I've sixteen summers, Varania. You heard the rules. Any slave between sixteen and eighteen can take part."

"You'll be facing slaves two years older than you, Leto. You'll be killed." His sister's voice was filled with anguish. "We've already lost father. Don't make us mourn you, too."

"Nothing is forever, Varania. Haven't you learned that yet?" he asked harshly. "Magister Danarius is offering a boon to the winner. Do you realize what that means? I can ask him to free you and mother. Freedom, Varania! For both of you!"

Her fingers dug tighter into his shoulder through the threadbare tunic that he wore. "And what of you, Leto?"

"I'll be his bodyguard. It's a prized position, Varania. It won't be like here, ignored, starved. You've seen how the magisters treat the slaves they prize. They live almost as well as the magisters themselves. Plenty of food, a room in the main estate. As his bodyguard, I'll be able to travel outside and see the city. All of it. Not just the little bits and pieces you can see through the gate. It's the only chance for all of us, Varania. Don't you see?" He wrapped his hands around hers and pleaded with her to understand.

"I don't like it, Leto. There are stories of things the magisters do. Terrible stories." Her voice shook, but he could tell that she was listening to him.

"I have to do something, Varania. Otherwise, I'm worth nothing more than a blood sacrifice to the master. I don't want to die like that. I don't want you to die like that, either. You're my sister, Varania. I care about you." His hands on hers softened. "I have to do this, Varania. Can't you see?"

A tear fell from her eye, quickly brushed away. "There's no stopping you, is there, Leto?" The quiet resignation in her voice matched that on her expression.

He shook his head once. "No. I'm going to enter. And I _will win_, Varania. I swear it!"

She glanced around quickly to ensure they were alone, then she pulled him into a fierce hug. "I will pray for you, Leto." Just as quickly, she released him. "Go. I will tell mother."

He held her hand for just a second, then strode away to inform the seneschal of his decision.

That was how, three days later, he came to be standing in the holding cell in the Palladium, the largest arena in Minrathous. The cell was crowded with other slaves his age, at least thirty others, although he couldn't get a good count. Most of them were men, although there were several young women mixed in. There were even several humans in the crowd. Each of them was stripped down to a loin cloth. The girls also had a breast band, but nothing more. There had been a few elbows and fists thrown, but they were too closely watched for anything more serious. The magister wanted the killings to be in the arena.

A burly slave master with a thick gut and oiled beard climbed heavily to the blocks at the front of the cell. A heavy whip with a dark wood handle and leather stained with something darker dangled from his side. "Listen up, slaves," he yelled. They quieted immediately. "Ya heard the rules when ya entered the tourney, but I'm here to spell it out ta ya. One o' ya will end up bein' the winner of Magister Danarius' tournament. The rest of ya are entertainment for the masses. They expect a show, and we'll be givin' it ta them."

Still no one moved. Life in Minrathous was brutal for a slave, and not one of them expected anything different. The slave master continued. "Since there was so many that entered, the first round is the paired elimination. You'll get the weapons we give you. We'll match you up against each other, and you'll all be in the arena at once. Fight only your opponent - no others. Winners stay standing until everyone is finished."

He looked down on them, crushed together into a tense, angry mass. "One more thing. No healin' of any sort through the whole tourney. Ya take an injury, ya live with it to the end. Or not," he added with a grim chuckle.

Leto found himself shoved into the line about a third of the way from the beginning. They were being herded toward the arena through a narrow door. As he got closer to the exit, he saw that they were being paired up with each randomly given a weapon. He saw an older boy shove his way ahead of a girl to snatch up a sword, instead of the two daggers that the girl was given. He panicked when he saw the weapon master reach for a massive two-handed sword and give it to him. He tried to duck behind the boy behind him, but was rudely shoved back into place. The man in charge of weapons thrust the sword at him, and it was either grab it or drop it on his feet.

The line moved forward, and he was pushed out onto the sandy floor of the arena. The slave master grabbed him and the boy behind him and marched them onto the far side of the arena. Leto blinked in the early morning sun and saw that the Palladium was only half full. It would fill up later in the day as the contestants grew fewer. The rumor in the holding pens was that Magister Danarius had paid a great deal to put on this tournament. The royal box was filled with magisters although the Archon's throne was empty.

All around the arena, contestants were being paired off. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to the weapons each had been given. He hefted the massive two-handed sword and quailed for a moment at the weight, but he refused to let his opponent know how heavy it was for him. Instead, he lifted it and let it rest on his shoulder, doing his best to appear cocky and confident. The boy across from him was only slightly bigger and had been equipped with a small round shield and a short sword not much longer than his forearm.

A gong sounded three times. By the time the echoes from the third had faded into silence, the entire crowd was quiet, and a magister in rich purple robes was standing at the front of the box. "Slaves, you know the rules. By day's end, one of you will be the victor. The others will be food for the beasts of the arena. I want the strongest, most cunning warrior to be my bodyguard. I assure you, the winner will be feared by all. With my magic, the winner will become more powerful than you can ever imagine. And I will grant any boon of the winner's choosing. Now...fight!"

The crowd roared its appreciation and blood lust as the inexperienced fighters on the arena floor tried their best to kill their opponents. Leto's world narrowed down to the nameless boy across from him who charged straight at him with sword pumping up and down. Leto's sword was terribly heavy on his shoulder as he gripped the pommel hard. He waited until the last possible second, then leapt to the side and swung the monster sword. He managed to nick the other boy's bare calf, but the tip of the sword buried itself in the sand, and Leto was forced to let it fall to the ground to save himself as the boy turned and swiped at him with the short sword.

He danced around, twisting and turning to avoid the boy's clumsy sword swings. He couldn't get to his fallen sword, but he didn't even want to try. He knew he couldn't lift it and swing it in time to counter his opponent's attack. As he rolled to avoid an overhead blow, he grabbed a handful of sand and threw it into the boy's face. He immediately dropped his sword to rub at his eyes. Leto eyed the short sword enviously, but the slave master had told them to use their weapons, and he was afraid that if he took a weapon he hadn't been given that he would forfeit both his match and his life. But he was willing to bet that he could use his hands.

He launched himself at the other boy and knocked him down into the sand. His fist pummeled him in the face over and over until blood and then teeth went flying. The boy swung ineffectually, and Leto easily dodged his pitiful blows. Teeth pulled back in a snarl, Leto fastened his hands around the boy's throat and tightened with every bit of his strength until he felt something inside snap and the last bit of resistance disappeared from his enemy. Gasping, he sat back on his knees, and then staggered to his feet as he had been bidden.

Looking around the arena, he could see that only a few had finished their matches. It was clear even to him that none of those in the arena were familiar with weapons, which eased a tiny bit of the fear that lived inside him. He had never touched a weapon until this moment, and he had been frightened of meeting someone who was skilled in fighting.

His attention was drawn to a nearby pair still fighting. The girl had two daggers, and her opponent had a net and a trident. The girl would seem to be at a disadvantage, but it was soon obvious the boy was fumbling both the net and the trident. He tried to catch the girl around the legs, but the net fell short. As he tried to pull it back and point the trident at her at the same time, she screamed and rushed toward him. She twisted to avoid the trident points and sank a dagger into his neck. A long gout of blood spurted onto the sandy floor to the approving roar of the crowd. As the boy collapsed to his knees, she buried her other dagger into his chest. Like Leto, she climbed to her feet and stood facing the magisters in the royal box.

Leto had no idea how long he stood there watching the other pairs kill each other. The sun rose higher, and sweat rolled down his naked back, but he didn't move. Like all slaves, he had been harshly schooled in how to behave around magisters. Usually, as a slave, you wanted to avoid the attention of a magister, but today was completely different. Leto held his head high and kept his back straight as the other pairs eventually separated into victors and the dead.

Eventually, only one pair was left. They were still taking tentative pokes at each other, neither one committing to the attack, and both obviously afraid. Soon the crowd started booing. Leto split his attention between the magisters and the final pair. He saw Magister Danarius give a signal to the slave master, who nodded curtly. He strode over to the pair and grabbed the closest boy by the hair. He drew a wickedly curved knife from his belt and slit the boy's throat. The other boy cried out and started to run away. Leto saw the magister signal the guard, and an instant later, a black fletched arrow sprouted from the boy's back. The crowd roared its approval again.

Leto carefully buried his feelings deep inside as the slave master herded the remaining contestants back into the bowels of the Palladium. He carefully took the measure of those remaining. He saw that one boy had a deep cut across his thigh and could barely walk. A couple of others had wounds severe enough that he felt confident he could take them if paired up with them.

As they were pushed and crowded back into line, he sneered and pushed back at any who got too close to him. He had survived the first round, but so had all of them. The slave master put them into individual cells now, and Leto concentrated on projecting an image of confidence. He might not be a trained warrior, but nothing and no one would stop him from winning the magister's prize. His future, and more importantly, his family's freedom depended on it.


	2. Of Beasts In All Forms

There was a break while the arena slaves worked to clear the dead bodies from the Palladium and spread more sand to cover the spilled blood. Not that Leto knew the reason. He was only glad for the chance to sit and recover. To his surprise, his hands started shaking so hard that he had to clench them into fists and shove them under his legs to stop it from being obvious. He kept his teeth from chattering by clenching them so tightly his jaws ached. Fortunately, the shaking only lasted a short while. Meanwhile, he leaned his head back against the cell wall and pretended he was sleeping.

He was more tired than he realized because his feigned sleep turned into a real one. He startled awake when the slave master walked past, rattling his whip along the iron bars. "Up and at 'em, slugs. Next round you'll all be facing beasts, one at a time. Kill the beast and move on. Otherwise..." He chuckled darkly, and no one needed to have it spelled out to them.

Leto forced himself to sit quietly and conserve energy, unlike a few of the others who paced anxiously in their cells. Whenever anyone looked at him, he either stared back indifferently or sneered with the intention to intimidate. Otherwise, he ignored them.

He was the fourth to be called. He didn't know if anyone had survived or not; no one had been brought back to their cells.

Killing a beast would be hard, but he didn't think it would be as hard as killing another person had been. This time, before being sent onto the arena floor, he was given his choice of weapons. He scanned the weapon rack and settled on a thin longsword that he thought he could swing easily.

A brusque command from the slave master sent him to the center of the arena where he bowed carefully to the magisters in the royal box. He could see that they were busy partaking of a sumptuous display of food in the royal box and barely paid any attention to him. His own stomach rumbled, but he ignored it from long force of habit. Scanning the arena floor, he could get no clues about what had happened to the previous contestants; there were no bodies of either slaves or beasts.

The sun was high and hot overhead, and he was already sweating as he cleared the sand under his feet and waited for whatever beast would show itself. A door opened to the side, and a great black mabari galloped out. A shiver of fear shuddered down his spine - a relic of slave stories he'd heard about Ferelden dog lords and their vicious war hounds. Then he wrapped his hands tighter around the sword's grip. It's just a beast, like any other, he told himself.

The hound paused and pointed its muzzle to the sky and bayed out the most horrendous sound he had ever heard. It made him want to drop his sword and cover his ears, but he did neither. The hound stared at him with eyes that were piercingly intelligent, as if it could sense that he had held out against its first attack. It bayed again, louder this time, and Leto's feet were rooted in place as it raced toward him. His attention was fixated on the dark muzzle snarling with hate and dripping with spittle as it growled. At the last second, Leto forced his feet to move and swerved to the side, using his sword to block the swipe of the mabari's giant paw. He hadn't moved fast enough, however, and he now sported three deep gouges along his ribs that burned as his sweat dripped into them.

The hound spun fantastically fast, and Leto barely got his sword up to block the mabari's snapping jaws. "You will not beat me, beast!" he growled back. He had no idea he looked just as deadly and feral as the hound he was facing down, or that the magisters in the royal box were looking on with appreciation.

Again the hound pounced, and again Leto danced to the side, his bare feet easily finding purchase in the thick, coarse sand. He swung the blade at the beast again, finding it much easier to handle than the two handed monstrosity he had been given the first time. He felt confident enough to hold the sword in one hand with the other out for balance as he and the hound circled around each other. The hound made a diving snap with his jaws and retreated with a gash through its lips for its pain. Now blood mixed with the saliva that drooled onto the sands.

Leto wasn't so overconfident that he would go chasing the hound. Rather, he waited for the beast to grow impatient and lunge forward, but the hound was cannier than he expected. It howled again to the skies, causing the freedmen in the lower benches to cover their ears and complain loudly. Leto refused to flinch, however, and stared the hound down when it finished its mournful cry. "I am not impressed, dog," he sneered. "You need more than a puppy's cry to defeat me."

The hound snarled and charged. Leto slid one foot backward to brace himself, and as the hound leaped, he lunged forward with the sword to impale the beast through the chest. He knew that he needed to do more to please the crowd and gain the attention of the magisters. As the hound fell heavily to the ground, he made a point of twisting the blade in its chest. The crowd, predictable as always, cheered the show of the lean youth showing his utter domination over the dumb beast. He glanced at the royal box and saw that Magister Danarius had already turned away. He needed more. Pulling the blade out, he whirled it overhead and spun it in a glittering arc as he brought it down and decapitated the hound.

The crowd went wild. He pulled his sword out and held it up to the sky in a salute to the royal box, standing stiffly at attention as the hound's blood dripped down the blade and over his raised arm. He stood like that until the slave master came to take him away. Although his expression never changed, inwardly, he was exulting as Magister Danarius turned back to watch him, eyes never leaving him until Leto was taken away.

The approval of the crowd buoyed him up until he reached the cool and dim recesses leading into the underbelly of the Palladium. It was a different set of holding cells from where he had been earlier. He saw that of the four that preceded him, only two were here, and one of them was nursing a bad bite wound on his shoulder.

"Eat. Drink. Rest," the slave master told him roughly.

Leto saw that bread, ale, and even some meat had been placed out for the contestants who made it this far. Even though he was exhausted as the adrenaline drained from his system, he forced himself to walk slowly and steadily to the table and heap food on a plate before he allowed himself to sit at a table as far from the others as he could find. He ate slowly, knowing better than to fill his stomach in haste. From this cell, he could hear the roar of the crowd, but it didn't tell him if man or beast won the round until the door opened and another contestant walked in. It was the girl with the two daggers. She must have liked them, because she had chosen them again for her fight. She hadn't escaped unscathed, though. Deep furrows ran down the side of her face, nearly taking out an eye. Without healing, her scars would be hideous. He turned away. Not his problem.

In the end, only two more contestants entered the cell. Only the burly human appeared to have escaped without injury. The entire time, not one word was said.

"Come." The slave master gestured curtly for them to line up at the entrance. "Your next test awaits. Choose your weapons." The girl grabbed her two daggers again. The burly human chose a heavy hammer. Leto reached out for the long sword, then hesitated. His side still burned from the gashes left by the mabari. He had no idea what the next challenge would entail, but he doubted it would be like the previous two. This was an entertainment for the masses as much as it was for Magister Danarius to select his bodyguard. Not knowing exactly why, but going on instinct, Leto took a short sword that allowed him to use a shield as well.

When they were all lined up in a row facing the door, the slave master gestured for it to drop open. Leto and the others stared out into the transformed arena. Archers and mages stood atop barricades near the edges of the arena, and the floor itself was littered with pits and wooden obstacles.

"This one's simple, slaves," the arena master shouted out. "Make it to the other side alive," he said with a chortle and stepped back into the darkened stone entryway where the door slammed shut.

Leto took a deep breath to work himself up for a sprint, but as soon as he tensed, a black fletched arrow buried itself in the sand just in front of him. He took an involuntary step backwards, but ran into an invisible wall of force. Forward was the only way out. He glanced down the line and caught the eye of the burly human, and without a word or any other sign, they both sprinted across the line and out into the arena.

Leto broke left and kept to the outside of the wooden crates and barricades as much as possible to keep cover between himself and the archers. He had been afraid they would shoot him down as soon as he raced out, but aside from that one arrow, they hadn't made any moves. Of course, he thought as he ducked behind a crate. They had to let at least one of them cross the finish line for the Magister to have his glorious challenge.

He heard a whoosh and an agonized scream from behind him. Sparing a fast glance backward, he saw that the last man to leave the start had been immolated in flame - apparently the punishment for being cowardly. Another young elf was chasing along behind him, and Leto turned his attention to getting across the arena. There was a pit filled with spikes ahead, and to get around it, he would have to swing into the center of the arena where he could see some sort of magic glyph swirling in the sand. He put his head down and ran faster and launched himself into space, wind milling both legs and arms to try and cross the chasm.

He landed awkwardly and fell flat on his face. Pushing himself up from the dirt and sand, he saw the elf behind him try the same thing, but he landed short and was hanging on to the edge of the pit, scrabbling in futility at the sand floor. The young man called out desperately for help, and for a half second, Leto actually considered turning around to pull him out. Before he could put such a stupid and reckless plan into action, though, a mage pointed his staff at the boy and froze him into immobility. Leto could only watch in morbid fascination as the boy fell backward to land on the stakes.

Ripping his gaze away, he got to his feet and sprinted as hard as he could across an open area of sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl with two daggers making the same sprint. A glint in the bright summer sun was the only warning he had, and he threw his shield arm up in the air in a frantic hope of catching the arrow speeding toward him. He made it! The arrow slammed into the small round shield and sank into the hard wood, but he barely noticed. The end was in sight!

He was straining toward the safety of the finish line when he was unexpectedly slammed hard in the side by another boy he hadn't seen come up behind him. He tucked as he fell and somehow managed to roll back onto his feet. Distantly, he heard the crowd roar in disapproval, but he couldn't fathom the reason why until he felt the bite of a knife across his bare back.

Whirling, he saw the boy lunging forward to stick his knife in Leto's chest. Again, Leto blocked with his shield even as he swung his sword around at the boy's head. His opponent ducked and lunged again, forcing Leto to retreat. He knew the finish line was just behind him, but instinctively, he knew that he had to deal with this threat before he could seek its safety.

The two of them traded attacks, neither one connecting. Leto heard the tenor of the crowd turn ugly, and he knew that he had to do something to win their approval, because they were only a noisy reflection of the true masters of this game. He stood up straight and lowered his sword and shield, daring the other boy to come at him. As expected, the other took him up on the challenge immediately. Leto waited until the last possible instant, then turned on the ball of his foot to duck out of the knife thrust and simultaneously bring his own sword around. Even though he meant it to happen, he still found himself shocked by how easily the sharpened edge slid into the other boy's abdomen. Leto glanced up and found himself held motionless by a pair of pale blue eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He watched as the other boy crumpled to the ground, his life's blood pooling out onto the sand. A gesture by a mage wielding her staff shook him out of his complacency, and he turned to run to the finish line.

He was the last one to cross, but there were only two others who had made it across the deadly gauntlet. He wasn't surprised to see the big human, although he had lost his hammer somewhere along the way, or the elf girl with the two daggers. Both wore the marks of their crossing. The girl's eye was swollen completely shut, and the man had a deep puncture wound in his thigh from an arrow that had been torn out.

All three stood tall and proud with the hot Tevinter sun shining white hot on them as the crowd whooped and cheered, then fell silent as Magister Danarius moved to the front of the royal box. "What a marvelous showing!" he proclaimed and smiled as the crowd cheered again. "And yet, for our final match in honor of our Archon, there can be only two. So I leave it to you, the people of Minrathous, to decide the final combatants."

Leto's heart clenched in fear as the crowd went wild. Beside him, he could see the girl's feet twitch almost imperceptibly in the sand. All three were nervous. They had lost even the modicum of control over their own fate that had been theirs since they entered the tournament, and now one of them would die at the whim of the mob.

Danarius continued. "Will you have Herrad the mighty?" The big human thumped his meaty fists against his chest and roared back at the crowd.

"Or will it be Elamshira the quick?" The girl spun her daggers in each hand, a move which excited the crowd until she fumbled one and it fell into the sand. Not daring to pick it up and draw more attention to it, she thrust her single dagger up at the sky, but there were snickers mixed in with the yelling. The magister was too far away to be sure, but Leto thought he saw a look of displeasure cross his aquiline features.

"Or will you have Leto the bold?" he asked the crowd. Instinctively, Leto knew that his response depended as much on showmanship as skill, and he clanged his sword against his shield, then spun in a slow circle with arms outstretched and chin jutted out, as if daring them to come for him. The crowd loved it and went wild.

When he turned to face the magisters again, he saw Danarius say something to one of his apprentices who disappeared from sight. A hissing sound was the only warning they had, and Leto barely stopped from jumping in fear and surprise as a black arrow suddenly sprouted from the girl's chest. She staggered backward, looking surprised as she fell to her knees and then to her side. The crowd screamed in approving bloodlust at Magister Danarius's decision. At a gesture from Magister Danarius, Leto and Harrad turned to face each other, ignoring the body between them. Leto braced himself, ready to spring to the attack the instant the order was given, but instead, the slave master appeared to lead them back inside.

In the cool dimness of the holding cells, they were separated. "You'll be waitin' til the Archon himself shows up," the slave master told him. "Yer the Magister's special attraction today. I can't be givin' ya any healin' potions, but I can give ya this. Drink up."

Leto took the cup and downed it without question. Immediately, he felt the tiredness drain out of his limbs, replaced with a sense of vigor and vitality he had rarely felt. The slave master saw it on his face and chortled. "Yeah, that's good stuff, ain't it? It'll make for a better fight between the two o' ya."

The potion made him twitchy and restless and made it difficult for him to sit quietly and conserve his strength. It also distorted his sense of time. It might have been an hour, but it felt like half a day before the slave master came to retrieve him again. As he followed the overweight human through the dim tunnels, a cold dread began to form in the pit of his stomach. He had already killed twice today. Now he was not only expected to kill another, but to put on a show while doing it. On a visceral level, he was disgusted by the magisters', and by reflection the mob's, thirst for blood, but he couldn't allow that to affect him now. He would win or he would die. He grabbed the slim longsword and held it up in front of him. He would win. It wasn't just his life on the line. It was for his mother and his sister, as well. For them, he would do anything.

The slave master opened the door and told him to march to the center of the ring and bow to the royal box. Even from here, Leto could see the Archon lounging negligently in his high-backed throne with Magister Danarius at his side. Across the ring, he saw his opponent armed with a heavy hammer. It would be a fight of speed versus strength.

The two of them walked across the sands to stand in front of the royal box. The worst of the day's heat was over, but the sun was low enough to blind him if he faced the wrong way. They bowed, and Leto could see the boredom in the Archon's face, but Magister Danarius' was a mask of pleasant interest. Leto faced his opponent and the mob held its breath as the Archon raised his hand and let it fall.

The mob erupted in a roar to cheer them on in a fight to the death, hopefully one that would be good and bloody according to their low standards. Leto tightened his grip on his sword and prayed that his hands would not get sweaty in the afternoon sun. His opponent lifted his hammer overhead and roared out in challenge, and the mob loved it, roaring back enthusiastically. Then he charged, hammer held high and intent on smashing Leto into a bloody pulp on the sand.

Leto held his ground until the last moment before diving to the side. He tried to swipe his sword across the man's chest, but he was too far away, having given ground earlier than he needed to in order to avoid being hit. He steeled his nerves. He would have to allow the other man to get closer. In fact, if he wanted to strike the killing blow, he would have to find a way inside his reach.

They surged back and forth, by turns advancing on the other, then falling back and giving ground. Leto grew bolder, daring Harrad to swing his hammer. As the huge man pulled back, Leto darted in to stab with his sword, forcing him to swing earlier than he meant with subsequently less power and speed. Leto would dart to the side, slashing at his opponent's flank or thighs. He especially tried to target the arrow wound seeping blood, but the other man protected that side. Once he misjudged the direction of Harrad's swing, and only just managed to sidestep in time.

Each breath was like a red hot knife stabbing through his lungs as he panted heavily in the hot, still air of the arena. His opponent was looking even more tired, and how he found the strength to keep swinging that heavy hammer as quickly and hard as he did was actually a little frightening for Leto. His own sword felt like it had doubled in weight since the fight began. He shook his sweat-heavy black hair out of his eyes, not daring to touch it and make his hands wet. Some of the calluses on his feet had been torn away, making every step on the hot sands burning agony that he struggled to ignore. The energy imparted by the potion he had taken earlier was long gone, and now he was down to innate stubbornness. Rage fueled by the unfairness of the magisters, the mob, all of Tevinter was mixed in there, too, but buried so far down that he didn't even understand what he was raging at. The only things left in the world were the sword in his hand and the man facing him who had to die.

His enemy pulled the hammer back to swing again, but Leto waited. His strength and energy both were flagging, and he had to finish this while he still had enough of both to move quickly. The ground shook as the man slammed the hammer where he had been just a fraction of a second earlier, and before his enemy could reset and pick it up again, Leto spun on the ball of his foot, ignoring the pain from ripping away from skin, and drove the point of his sword deep into the man's side.

Harrad bellowed in pain, and adrenaline gave him the extra fuel to pick his hammer up and swing it at Leto. He twisted the sword even as he ducked, but he misjudged the swing. Or perhaps Harrad didn't have the strength to lift his hammer any longer, but whatever the case, the handle smacked Leto in the shoulder, sending a red hot spike of pain into his shoulder and making his left arm instantly numb.

Still doggedly holding onto his sword, he forced himself to step forward, driving it in deeper. Blood, dark red and thick, ran down Harrad's side. The big man staggered, and Leto staggered with him. Leto looked up and was caught in the other man's gaze. There was no anger there, no recrimination, only a sorrowful acknowledgement that in a battle where only one can be the victor, he was not it. Harrad slumped to the ground, and Leto pulled his sword free, unwilling to let go and unable to accept that it was over and that he had won.

He stumbled backward and looked up at the royal box, seeing the Archon clapping in a desultory manner. Magister Danarius was standing next to him, looking pleased. As he looked around the arena, his stunned mind worked hard to interpret the roar of the crowd, only slowly realizing that it was for him, that he stood victorious above all the others.

The potent mix of adrenaline, relief, pain, and rage kicked into gear one last time, and he raised his sword high to salute the mob and magisters both, baring his teeth in a feral grin and roaring back to the mob.

He was the victor! He alone remained standing on the scorching, bloodied sand, basking in the glory that the mob and the magisters bestowed on him. With grit, determination, deceit, with blood and sweat, with weapons and body, he had defeated every challenge thrown at him and emerged victorious.

For a single, shining, glorious moment, he wasn't just a nameless elven slave of a minor noble. He was the champion! He would be raised up to a position few of his status could dream of, and with it would come the most precious prize of all - a boon from a powerful magister. He pumped his fist in the air in time with the crowd's chant, loving every second of it.

No matter what the future held, this one moment, this prize he had earned, made it all worthwhile.


	3. The Spoils

His new life felt like a dream.

His new master was a powerful Magister - the slaves of the household made sure to tell him just how powerful and highly ranked he was, since any status they had derived first from their master.

He had a cot in the barracks all his own, complete with a warm blanket that didn't have a single hole. He no longer had to share a spot on the floor and ratty blankets with others.

He had as much as he wanted to eat, which was considerable after all of the training he was put through every day. He grew stronger, but wielding the great sword stayed beyond his capability.

He had new clothes, made especially for him. They were black linen and softer than anything he'd ever felt. No shoes; slaves didn't wear shoes.

He was taught protocol and etiquette appropriate to his new station in life. Danarius wanted him close to hand, so he learned everything about serving the rich and powerful: where and how to stand, how to address his master's guests, how to pour wine and serve food.

But for everything he gained, he lost something as well.

No more hiding unnoticed in the furthest reaches of his master's estate. No more disguising his beauty behind filthy hair and clothes. Regular baths were required. His master's apprentice eyed him hungrily in a way that made him nervous.

No more staring at the floor in the presence of his master and his companions. He was being trained as a bodyguard and had to learn quickly the balance between subservience and surveillance.

No more privacy. Even as a slave in his previous master's estate, he found ways and places to steal moments for himself. Now he was training or serving his new master, even if that meant nothing more than awaiting his master's pleasure in the study where Danarius conducted his business.

No more family. He had asked for his boon in front of Magister Danarius and the Archon himself, and Danarius had granted it in grand fashion, calling on his former master and arranging it with nothing more than a promise and a handshake. Now they were free, and he would always be a slave.

There were times the dream turned uneasy.

One day he was called to his master's study. "Strip," Danarius ordered.

Leto obeyed immediately, taking off his fine linen shirt and pants and folding them neatly. At an impatient gesture from his master, he also removed his underclothes, leaving him standing naked in front of his master's grand desk.

Danarius sketched at his desk, occasionally telling Leto to turn around. After nearly an hour and with no explanation, Danarius ordered him to dress and leave.

The next time he was called to Danarius' study and told to strip, his master painted lines all over his body in brown ink. Afterward, he detoured through the drawing room where a massive mirror hung on one wall. He studied the flowing lines that decorated his body. They made no sense to him - just patterns that swirled in lines and dots over his torso, arms and legs. Finally, he shrugged and headed to the bath house to see if they would wash off. He was secretly relieved when they did.

Once he was forced to watch when an elderly slave was punished for dropping a plate when serving Danarius's guests. After the meal, Danarius and all his guests departed for the back courtyard and watched as the guard captain administered twenty lashes to the old man's back. Some of the guests smiled cruelly. Others egged the captain on. Leto locked his feelings down as far as he could and watched impassively, even when the old slave's legs gave out and he hung helplessly from the manacles around his wrists as blood flowed down to soak into the sand.

Weeks later, memories of that whipping came to mind when he was forced to pour wine for his master's guests, and an unwelcome intimate caress nearly caused him to fumble the wine glass. His heart was in his throat as the group at the table laughed at him. The female magister who fondled him laughed loudest of all, the sound high and sharp like broken glass jingling. "Surely this cannot be the one you were speaking of, Danarius. Look at him. He's as meek and timid as a mouse," she said with another tittering laugh, and the others joined in.

Leto's ears burned as hot as his cheeks and he grasped the wine pitcher tightly. Danarius chuckled indulgently as he looked at Leto. "Dearest Paximina, you will have to return after I have completed my work. I promise you, meek and timid will be nowhere to be found." His master's words brought a rush of fear to Leto and he ducked his head to cover it up, eliciting another round of laughter at his expense.

The evening became a torment for Leto as the dinner guests seemed to delight in touching him and causing him to blush or squirm away. He was afraid of drawing his master's wrath, but Danarius seemed amused at the spectacle. It wasn't until Magister Paximina drew him in for a wanton and plundering kiss that Danarius intervened. "Now, now, my dear. You have your own slaves for that. I'm training him for a bodyguard, not a bed slave."

When Danarius gestured for Leto to return to him, he moved as quickly as he could without actually running to the relative safety of his master, drawing more laughter at his obvious retreat.

Paximina pouted at Danarius. "You promised us entertainment this evening. I want him," she said with all the petulance of a child. In the slave quarters where Leto had grown up, such an attitude would have been met with a quick slap to the face. Among magisters, it was apparently tolerated, even nurtured, into adulthood.

Danarius leaned back and steepled his fingers together as he smiled slyly at the woman. "No, Paximina. I promised you a work of magic unlike any you had seen before. But to truly appreciate my masterwork, you had to see the raw material. Now, I believe we should retire to my study for any further discussions."

Leto was left behind and stood motionless behind Danarius' chair as the magisters made their leisurely way into his master's study, enduring a few more casual and intrusive caresses as the room emptied. It wasn't until the kitchen slaves entered to clean the room that he finally shook himself free of his stupor and wandered back to his cot in the barracks.

He had thought he was training to be Danarius' bodyguard. But now he realized there was more. He knew nothing about magic except that it gave the magisters and other mages power over everyone in Tevinter. The sessions spent with Danarius studying him and painting lines on his body became ominous in his head instead of just odd and uncomfortable. Was Danarius planning to change him into something else? The life of a slave was always filled with uncertainty, his fate never his own, but he had always had at least an idea of what might be in store for him. Now he was wondering what his master had planned for him, and he was more uncertain than he had ever been, even when his father had been sold away from them.

Then there was the time the dream broke his heart.

He was ordered to serve wine to his master's guests. The steward fussed over him, brushing his hair back and making sure Leto's appearance was pleasing. Leto picked up the serving tray and entered the study. He stopped in shock when he saw Magister Danarius' guest.

"Come in, Leto," his master purred softly, but the command was obvious. Leto forced his feet to carry him forward and realized with shock that his hands were shaking. Desperately, he forced himself to calm down before he embarrassed his master. Or worse, his family.

"Leto!" his mother exclaimed and looked like she was on the verge of standing up to embrace him. A furtive touch on her shoulder from Varania stopped her.

"Leto, wine for my guests," Danarius ordered with a calculated smile.

He managed to pour the wine and hand it to Danarius and his mother and sister without spilling it. The entire time, his family stared at him. He knew they wanted to talk, but wouldn't in front of the magister. Danarius carried the conversation for them.

"As you can see, my dearest lady, your son is quite well. He's quite the treasure, I assure you. I have grand plans for him."

Greedily, he snatched glimpses of them whenever he could. They were dressed in finery only associated with free people. Their clothing proclaimed their liberati status more than anything else could have done. Reluctantly, his mother and sister caught up the conversation, leaving him to stand silently by the sideboard, just another slave ready to serve at his master's pleasure.

This was his prize. This was what made everything else bearable, he thought. No matter what happened to him now, he could rest easy knowing that his mother and sister were safe. No one would ever own them again. It made the pain of his dismissal easier to bear as Danarius escorted his guests to the door. He exchanged one last look with Varania before he left. _ Take care of her_, he mouthed silently. She nodded once before the door closed and cut him off from his family forever. He treasured this memory of the two most precious people in the world to him. It was a memory he swore he would never forget.

And like every dream, eventually it had to end.

He was summoned to Danarius' study and once again his master had painted lines all over his body. He couldn't see them all, but he could tell that these were more elaborate than the last time, extending down to his palms and toes, up to his chin, and around his back. Instead of sleeping in the barracks, he was taken to a tiny stone room in the basement and locked in. He was naked and the night and cell were chilly. Only a small grate near the ceiling admitted fresh air and a glimpse of starlight. There was a pallet on the floor, but he was too nervous to sleep. Instead, he drew his legs to his chest and watched the slowly rotating stars.

It was midmorning before his cell opened. Captain Berjeris escorted him through subterranean tunnels with one arm clamped tight around his arm, as if he were afraid Leto would run. He would almost laugh at that. Where would he run? He was a slave. His life belonged to his master. Although when the final door opened, and Leto saw the slaves chained the walls, he very nearly did run.

Blood magic. Whispers in the dark by frightened slaves. Stories of slaves who mysteriously disappeared. Legends of demons that haunted Minrathous.

Danarius was standing beside a wooden table that had straps obviously meant to hold a struggling person in place. He was wearing elaborate robes, and a silver knife gleamed in his hand. On another table, a cauldron full of a shimmering blue-white liquid bubbled and hissed ominously. His apprentice stood nearby, still eyeing him hungrily. As Leto was pushed through the door, Danarius smiled. It was a frightening thing, full of teeth and pride and hunger, and all of it directed at Leto.

He couldn't move. No matter that his master ordered him to lay on the table, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The captain pushed him forward, and even though he fought, he couldn't prevent the captain from restraining him to the table. Breathless, panting, skin slicked with sweat from both fear and exertion, he watched Danarius through fearful eyes.

The magister leaned over and brushed his hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. "Hush now, little Leto. This is the prize you fought for. You will be my masterpiece, and with you, I will rise even higher in the Magisterium."

Danarius nodded to his apprentice, and she stepped forward and very precisely cut into one of the slave's legs. Thick, bright blood streamed from the woman's legs and into channels on the floor. Danarius began chanting, and Leto bit back a sob. The air in the room grew heavy and thick, making it hard to breathe. Darkness gathered along the blood-filled channels cut into the stone floor and rose up to envelop the magister. The silver knife glinted eerily bright in the gathering gloom, and Leto flinched away as the blade just grazed along the flowing lines of the dye he had painted last night.

Fear rose up in great choking waves as Danarius dipped the knife into the cauldron. Rather than dripping from the blade as water would have, the blue-silver liquid clung tightly to the blade, swirling and twisting in mesmerizing patterns. Danarius laid the blade on his skin, and Leto bit his lip so hard he tasted blood as it felt like his skin was blistering and burning away to ash.

Then Danarius pushed the blade down so it cut through his skin, and Leto screamed in agony. The pain grew, consuming him, body and mind. Blue and white, spreading through his body, glowing, taking physical form, pushing against his thoughts, pushing against his very being. There was no room for thought, no room for memories. There was only the constant burning agony stabbing through his chest and radiating into his arms and legs. It grew until he was no longer aware of his body. He lost track of where the knife was. He was blind to everything except the blue-white glow that surrounded him.

He was sinking, falling, disappearing. Nothing in the world mattered beyond the molten flames burning away his flesh and bones. It wasn't that he gave up. Everything just faded away, burned out. Gone. All gone. Just like him.


End file.
